Final year cooking exam
by Zora Arian
Summary: Sequel to 'Mid year cooking exam'. The older you get, the more mature you become. 6 months after the mid year's cooking exam, both boys certainly are older. More mature? ...heh.


**SEQUEL. FINALLY. I toned down the humour here (I think) and concentrated on how they'll treat each other, thus it became longer than expected. There'll be instances that makes them seem quite different from their usual self, but hey, when has us teenagers ever been 'normal'? :DDD**

* * *

"An apron? Really, Anderson."

"I'm not as dumb as you think I am, insulter-er. It just so happens that I prefer my shirts not to be stained with various ingredients."

"And I thought you were playing at a housewife."

"With you as my 'husband'? Hah, I'd divorce you immediately before you could open that big mouth of yours!"

Molly scratched her head as Sherlock and Anderson kept on hurtling comments and insults at each other. After their mid-year cooking exam, they continued to practice cooking together as a team. They had gotten better with their cooking techniques and their tarts finally had the 'golden brown' shade of colour.

The communication part, however, was a totally different story.

"Sherlock, Anderson," she stepped inbetween them, by now used to becoming the mediator of their constant squabbles, "isn't it high time you guys stop this childish behaviour and just work together?"

"No," they both disagreed, glaring at one another. If looks could kill, they would be ash by now, and somehow Molly would be all too happy to sweep them away.

"This is the final-year cooking examination," came the booming voice of Ms Louise at the front of the kitchen. Sherlock and Anderson ended their glaring contest and paid attention to her while Molly held her hands behind her back.

"You are not allowed to receive any help except from your group members only. No one is to leave this kitchen without permission and even if you must, collect a pass from me. Other than that, come forward to collect the recipes you'll be cooking, 4 dishes in total, with the time limit now 1 1/2 hours. That means meticulous planning before you dive head-first into your dishes. Questions? No? Well then, you can start…now."

There came the sounds of the shuffling of shoes as students went forward to the teacher's bench and the rustling of papers as they looked through the recipes they would be making. Molly took her group's piece of paper and mumbled the names of the dishes. "Steak with Roasted Garlic and Herbs, Clam Chowder, Lemonade and Chocolate Lava Cake."

This…is going to be tough.

She got back to the work station assigned to her group and immediately started discussing with the boys. "So which are you interested in doing?"

Anderson voiced out his preference. "I would like to do the Choco-"

"Clam Chowder," Sherlock interrupted, face assuming a bored expression.

"You're doing Clam Chowder?" Molly questioned.

"No. Anderson is."

"What, me?" he pointed to himself. "I was going to do Ch-"

"No, Anderson. You're terrible with desserts. Remember your attempt at soufflé two weeks ago?"

Anderson shut up then, but internally cursed himself for forgetting to add flour to that soufflé. Suffice to say, it did not come out…soufflé-ish.

"Molly, since you are obviously the better cook than any one of us," Sherlock turned to Molly and addressed her, "you shall tackle the steak. Anderson will do the clam chowder while I take both the cake and lemonade. Now, any objections?"

The 'clam chowder cooker' opened his mouth to protest, but the 'cake-cum-lemonade baker' ignored him and, without missing a beat, continued, "None. Good. So what we're waiting for?" The 'baker' walked away.

There came some grumbling from the 'cooker' before he stomped off. The 'steak chef' stayed where she was for a moment, processing the situation, and sighed. She made her way to the station to retrieve her cooking utensils and get started.

* * *

"You are pretty much aware which is salt, yes?" Sherlock, who was cracking eggs into a bowl, enquired as Anderson rummaged through the cupboards looking for salt.

"Yes, I am," he said through gritted teeth, then took out a container with white particles. "See!"

"Sugar, Anderson. Those granules are obviously bigger than normal salt," his rival pointed out.

"UGH! Why can't they just label these things?!" Anderson mumbled, annoyed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Anderson produced another container with white substance. "That's baking powder. Again." The brunette gave a disgruntled groan before shoving the powder back into the recesses of the cupboards.

* * *

"Molly? I- I think I need a little help here…" Anderson's voice was thick with worry as he called out to her.

"Huh? Uh, I'm- I'm a little busy at the moment…" Molly replied apologetically as she chopped fresh basil. "Umm, Sherlock?" her head turned to the teenage boy, who was finished with the chocolate lava cake and was now placing the mixture in the refrigerator, "can you- can you help Anderson?" She knew what she was asking would inevitably lead to a squabbling match between him and her other group member, but she could not abandon her work just yet.

"Me? Help the guy who, yet again, can't tell the difference between salt and baking powder?" he scoffed.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, just help me, you git! My fingers…" Anderson all but moaned at his last words.

Sherlock turned to him and failed to keep a snort in check. Anderson was at the sink, his left hand hovering above it.

He had a clam in his index and little finger each, and was trying to hold back tears. Presumably of pain.

Said teen tried to gently prise open the one in his index finger while the other boy strode to him and forcefully pulled at the one in his little finger.

"**OH DEAR GOD, YOU IDIOT!**" Anderson slapped his rival's hand away, furious at his deliberate action and exclaiming at the pain throbbing in the poor finger.

"You asked for help; I merely obliged," Sherlock said in a smooth voice, this time taking out the clam with a little more care; the operative words being 'a little'.

"I didn't ask for you to dismember my pinky finger!" Anderson growled, rubbing his now-free-of-clams fingers.

"Look," he continued, once bordering to calm again, gesturing to the sink with a bowl of clamped-shut clams, "I need to open a little more clams, so if you are kind enough to help, we can get it over and done with."

Sherlock looked at the clams, then to Molly, who was oblivious to their antics, more intent on finishing her chopping, then back again. "Fine," he complied.

Soon, both boys stood at the sink, elbowing and pushing each other for space at the small sink. Anderson had just taken out another stubborn clam from its shell when he heard a strangled groan to his left. He turned to see Sherlock already facing him, the space between them occupied by his hand held mid-air. With the middle finger having the added decor of a clam.

"Pfft."

"Shut up and help."

Another strangled groan escaped from Sherlock's mouth.

* * *

Molly was done with the basil, garlic bulbs and trimming of foil, and walked over to Anderson to see how he was doing, especially after what she heard had happened to both her group mates. He was dicing carrots and she gave him an impressed look. "Wow, that's an amazing dicing technique you've got there."

Anderson had continued to practice at home, his mother teaching him all the right techniques to dicing, slicing and chopping. With the added practice of working with the team, he had improved greatly since the last time they worked together and he revelled in her praise. "Well, what can I say? I've been practicing real hard so far," he said, beaming.

"Very humble, Anderson," Sherlock interjected, his hands busy stirring the sugar syrup for the lemonade.

"Hey," Anderson started, ready to defend himself, "I don't go all 'deducing what you've eaten last night', unlike you, okay, and what you've been doing so far ain't exactly humbling either, so please keep your mouth shut and let me just do my work."

For once, Sherlock Holmes did what Anderson asked of him. He promptly ignored the boy and went on his job extracting lemon juice from the 6 lemons spread out on his part of the counter and soon, adding it and the sugar syrup into a pitcher. Anderson huffed in victory and continued dicing, Molly looking at him and Sherlock and back again, and having the expression of resignation on her face. Even after half a year, they still act like incorrigable 6 year olds.

* * *

"Molly, where's the butter?" Anderson called out to her from near the stove.

"It's in the fridge," she replied absent-mindedly, mind concentrating on her part of the cooking.

"Okay." He went over to the fridge just as Sherlock closed its doors after checking on the cake mixture and lemonade. They both eventually faced each other and Anderson folded his arms across his chest while Sherlock shoved his hands into his school trouser pockets. Neither backed down in the glaring match they had somehow declared.

A few seconds later, Molly smelled something akin to burning. She knew she was not the one doing any heat-related cooking now whereas Sherlock still had a few more minutes to wait before he could bake the cake in the oven. That narrowed down to just one person.

"Anderson, what's that smell?!" she asked, brows knitted together as she turned to the direction of the stove.

To see the saucepan heating up, with no butter in it. It was giving out a lot of hot air.

Immediately she rushed to the fridge, to see those damn silly boys still onto their damn silly antics, and with a strength she never knew she possessed, she practically pushed them out of her way. Both came out from a sort-of daze after being moved by a girl smaller than them and watched, confused, at Molly, who was taking out a 3/4 cup-filled butter and rushing back to the stove, dumping the butter into the heated saucepan. It gave an extremely loud sizzle before it quietened down and she pushed the butter around the saucepan with a wooden spatula. Anderson realised what she was doing and his eyes widen. Sherlock, face devoid of any expression, waited for another onslaught of 'Can you stop being childish' from her.

Instead, she surprised them by sighing in defeat and beckoned Anderson over. He dragged his feet, obeying her, and she told him to continue with the butter and reminded him to whisk in the flour as well. He nodded in understanding and took over when she left. She got to her section of the work station before she halted and, after a moment of internal debating, walked towards Sherlock, who had been appraising her every movement. Eyes on the floor and to her right, Molly asked him, "Can- can you help me with the grilling?"

Her head suddenly shot up, managing to startle him, and she stumbled on her explanation. "W-well, you're done with the cake and lemonade, which was easy to do-, wait, no, maybe it wasn't that easy, but the way you did it made it seem that way, and they are now in the fridge cooling, and you're at a loss as to what to do with the remaining time-, well, not that you're always at a lo-"

She stopped herself and gave him an apologising smile. "Uh, just…can you help me?"

"Sure."

Molly frowned at his answer as he walked to the grill provided for their group and set it up. She went to him and watched him for a moment adding coal underneath the rack when Anderson yelped in surprise. She turned to him, seeing his shocked face, eyes down on the part of his shirt not covered by the blue apron he was wearing. "I got clam juice on my shirt!"

She volunteered to help him stir in the vegetables and remaining clam juice in the saucepan while he attempted to clean off the stain, muttering minor curses under his breath.

"Apron not working, Anderson?" Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, you'll get mad as well if clam juice got onto your shirt!" he argued, hands wiping at the stain.

"But I don't have clam juice on my shirt now, do I?"

"Oh my god, you…" Anderson got too aggravated, he was at a loss for words.

* * *

Molly trimmed the fat from the sirloin meat at hand while Sherlock took out the cake mixture from the fridge to start baking it and Anderson added in the clams to the heated chowder soup. There was silence between them, but soon Molly gave a barely audible whimper.

Anderson and Sherlock heard her, though, and the former stopped stirring the clam chowder and approached her while the latter left the oven's side after placing the cake inside to be next to Molly's. She looked between them, left index finger bleeding.

"Molly, what are you waiting for? Clean this wound now!" Sherlock ordered, grabbing her other hand and pulling her towards the sink. "Anderson, plaster from Ms Louise, and double quick time if you may!"

Anderson shocked Molly by nodding and immediately complying to Sherlock's orders, rushing to the front where Ms Louise was, before her attention was grabbed by the pain the tap water inflicted when came into contact with her bleeding finger. "Ouch!"

The teen beside her muttered something along the lines of 'sorry', but other than that, he ignored her, his greyish-blue eyes trained on the rather deep wound. She could not help but flinch as he cleaned her wound thoroughly.

Molly was hardly ever close to Sherlock, be it friendship-wise or physically. Sure, they do talk once in a while, but it was mostly on a classmate-classmate basis. Well, at least in her opinion. Physically, not much at all, thus she could not help but shy away from him, trying to create distance between them by moving a little more to her right. But Sherlock pulled her in when his grip on her finger seemed to be slipping, and she managed to stop herself from crashing into him. Again, she watched him, meticulously dealing with her injured finger, and puzzling over the fact that being someone who thought of his classmates (and teachers) as idiots, he did not mind her being this close to him and not feel as uncomfortable as she was.

Anderson soon came back and called to Molly, saying he had retrieved a plaster from Ms Louise. She, forgetting about Sherlock's attention on her left hand, turned to Anderson quickly, her finger abruptly taken away from Sherlock's line of sight, her good hand slowly rising to receive the plaster. But Sherlock took her finger again, scowling slightly at her surprised face. "I was busy with your finger; don't move away. Anderson, plaster." His other hand, the one not grasping her finger, shot out palms-up, waiting for the plaster expectantly.

Anderson dropped it there, his eyes on Molly's deep finger cut. "That finger would be okay, right?"

"If you think Molly would die over a minor finger wound, then it should be good news to you that her chances of survival are quite high now," Sherlock sarcastically answered.

"But it is a pretty deep wound!" he countered.

"No worries, Anderson," Molly assured him once Sherlock was done attending to her wound, fingers unconsciously fiddling with the plaster, "I'll be fine. Like Sherlock said, it's just a minor finger wound; it'll heal."

He had doubts written around his face, but finally let it go and nodded. "Well, got to attend to the clams; they're calling and begging me to be cooked thoroughly," he joked, with Molly giggling slightly and Sherlock giving a severely withered look.

* * *

"You are left with 30 minutes," Ms Louise informed the class.

Ah, great, Molly thought. Guess it's time to panic.

"You couldn't see where you're going is it?!" She heard Sherlock's voice through the sound of the meat sizzling on the grill.

"You were the one not paying attention to your surroundings!" Anderson retorted.

"Obviously because I have a task at hand, whereas you are just hanging about like a lost sheep!"

"How dare you compare me to a sheep, you moose!"

"At least it's better than sloth, sheep!"

Molly turned away from the grill to the commotion behind her. Sherlock and Anderson were (OBVIOUSLY) bickering yet again, this time somehow taking to 'animal' name-calling.

"Dung beetle!"

"Slug!"

"Snail!"

"Pseudoscorpion!"

"What the hell does that even mean?!"

"A type of bug that people hardly care for!"

"Now that's lo-"

"Sherlock, move out of the way and just set that tray down! Anderson, you're not supposed to leave the chowder boiling!" Molly tried regaining some sanity in her group.

They both followed her orders and, taking a final scathing glance at each other, went on their way to do their respective jobs.

How many times have they been doing this?! Why can't they just work together, or at the very least, shut up?! Molly shook her head at her thoughts. No, they can't. They're Sherlock and Anderson.

"Molly, you need help with the grilling? Can I do that while you do the clam chowder?" Anderson asked from behind her.

She faced him, wondering why he would want to exchange tasks, when she saw behind him the cover of the saucepan with the chowder wobbling vigorously against the rim. "Oh god, Anderson! Okay, okay, fine, you go deal with the grilling!" she said, rushing over to the stove and turning the gas off. She then decided to wait for the cover to stop moving before scooping out some chowder to be served as their final product.

Meanwhile, Anderson turned over the meat on the grill while Sherlock, beside him, sprinkled icing powder over the lava cakes just out of the oven. There were 4 of them, all beautifully chocolate brown, and when he cut open one, the inside oozed out warm melted chocolate. Anderson could not help but close his eyes, taking in the smell of the chocolate in his nose. He opened them to watch Sherlock cut open another one but was slightly horrified to see him popping a piece of the cake into his mouth with a fork.

"HEY, you're not-" he began, but was cut off by Sherlock putting his finger to his own lips and nodding to Molly.

"Shh. You want some, don't you? Dilated pupils, expression of pleasure, slightly defensive posture towards me taking a bite. You may have some, but don't let Molly know. Hell will break loose if she does," he whispered, eyes watching Molly like a hawk, willing her not to look at them.

"God, that girl is quite…assertive these days," Anderson commented as he grabbed another fork and took a bite out of the cut-opened cake, a moan of satisfaction coming out from the back of his throat.

"No wonder, given our preferred communication style nowadays," Sherlock agreed, stabbing at a small piece and popping it into his mouth.

"Her husband's going to grow grey hair at an elevated speed if she decides to be this way. I much rather prefer the quiet Molly, who usually shies away from us."

"As they say: It's the quiet ones you have to be careful of."

Anderson looked at him, face slightly contorted in disgust. "Really, Sherlock? Didn't know you're such a…I don't know, wordplay master."

"There's no 'wordplay' here. It is rather true, though. I never knew she could be this assertive from the multiple times I've deduced her."

"You deduced her? Multiple times? Naughty, naughty…"

"Unfortunately not in that sense, Anderson; do keep up."

"Yeah, yeah," he rolled his eyes in response; another tiny piece entered his mouth and he mumbled, "still, 'the quiet ones we have to be careful of'. I wonder what kind of books Molly reads. Is it those dumb soppy teenage girl novels, or autobiographies of those authors abused by their parents at a young age, or-"

"Thick, mature, adult books?" Sherlock finished for him.

His group mate nodded. "Yup. 'Mature' and 'adult'… Still, a mystery worth solving, I guess. Why don't you try finding it out in your…'deductions' of her next time round?"

"Maybe. Great way to pass the time as well."

Both chuckled lightly, their forks rising up to their mouths in sync, when a female voice chilled them to the bone. "Why don't you ask me yourself?"

Then they got the back of their heads smacked by a small hand each, and they rubbed at the sore part, facing Molly, whose face showed the emotion opposite to 'bubbling with happiness'.

"Look, it's kinda weird already that you're not only having a conversation where neither of you are attempting to choke the other, but also gossiping about me," here she did her best to glare at them (need to work on this glaring thing, she mentally reminded herself), "but to **EAT**. **OUR**. **CAKE?!**"

"We do have three more," Anderson said, giving her his best puppy-dog eyes.

Molly wrinkled her nose. In addition to being livid, she was slightly disappointed at them for being disobedient and eating what was meant to be graded for their exam. But somehow she was also happy that they had actually had a normal conversation for once, without insulting the life out of each other. Though, a 'normal conversation' usually wouldn't have opinions on what kind of books someone reads in her spare time.

They stood there, Anderson looking sheepish, Molly looking like a volcano about to erupt, when Sherlock offered her the 3/4 eaten cake. "Want some?"

* * *

"OH MY GOD, WE HAVE TO HURRY!" Anderson almost shouted as the three of them rushed about their work station to set up the presentation of their dishes that would determine their final-year cooking exam grade. Molly spread out the table mat while Sherlock ran to the fridge to take out the lemonade and serve it.

Anderson took out the last piece of meat from the grill and began cutting it and the rest of the grilled meat into bite-sized pieces, before drizzling them with the oil mixture made earlier on, which consisted of olive oil, basil and rosemary.

Unbeknowst to him, his apron had somehow got itself wedged near the edge of the grill. And also near a small burning fire.

"Ahem, Anderson?" Sherlock waved at him to grab his attention.

"What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?" Anderson snapped back, annoyed at having his concentration broken. Although they had been civil to each other, even going as far as to slightly enjoy their first ever undestructive small talk, earlier on, things quickly went back to normal when Sherlock called him an idiot for not being aware that spoons have to be kept at the right side of the cutlery drawer while the knives were at the top left.

"Oh, okay. Just wanted to inform you that your apron's on fire, but it seems you're too busy," he shrugged and walked away as the teen with the burning apron jumped back from the grill in horror, took off his apron and promptly waved it in the air, in the hopes that it would die down.

"Oh god, oh god, FIRE!" he all but screamed, catching the attention of Ms Louise and the other students who looked on curiously.

"Wait, wait!" Molly noticed his predicament and huriedly took her bottle of water to douse the fire out. Anderson held his now half-burnt, fully soaked apron at arm's length and turned to his left, to see Sherlock with a ridiculously huge jar of water in his hands, over his head.

"What the **hell** are you doing?!" Anderson shouted, stepping back as Sherlock set down the jar on the counter.

"Thought you'd need water," he answered, a corner of his mouth instinctively curling up.

"But a **JAR** of them, over **MY** head?! Are you **insane**?! Wait. You were waiting to drench me, weren't you?!"

"Like I said, thought you'd need extra water to put out the flame."

Before Anderson could launch himself at the smirking bastard, Ms Louise rang a bell which echoed throughout the kitchen. "Time's up!"

Molly, who had been frantically adding clams into a bowl of chowder soup, inched her way to the counter with the table mat and all their other dishes and slowly pushed the bowl to the center.

* * *

Their group was the fourth to be evaluated. After tasting and giving compliments on their steak, clam chowder, cake and lemonade, Molly had been expecting Ms Louise to say an A when she tutted.

"Great work on the dishes, but from what I had observed of you guys, I can't say the same for your cooperation and teamwork. Too much noise and petty fighting like little kids; it's a wonder in itself that you've produced these dishes at all. So, overall grade: B."

Ms Louise walked away to grade the remaining groups, leaving Molly feeling exhausted and weary. She turned to the boys, who were quiet for once, and they were looking at her, at how she would react to the fact that they had gotten a B once more.

"Umm…I'm glad we've gotten a B again," she told them truthfully.

Anderson cocked his head to one side and stared at her, not quite believing what she had just said, while Sherlock merely spoke up, "You had expected at least an A, though. I saw that expectant look you wore while Ms Louise was complimenting our dishes."

"Yeah, but…it's you guys," she explained, not looking at them in the eye. "It's pretty much in your nature to quarrel, and I realise it's no use trying to change you guys. You're quite stubborn. But we survived this, and got a B. With any other group, I would have argued for more, but I know, given our 'performance' today, we don't exactly deserve a B, so I don't think fighting for a higher grade would do us any good. Who knows, we might drop a grade. You know how Ms Louise is like: her decision's final. So, uh…I'm glad…" She ended, giving them a shy smile.

"You know, I'm positive I-" Anderson pointedly glanced at Sherlock, "-**and Sherlock** gave you a hell of a time so far. It's amazing you stuck with us at all, not only for this exam, but for our other practices as well. We've been in the same group a couple of times; the other members figuratively kicked us out. We must have been devils let loose alright, but you stayed. Thank you for that, and I'm sorry." He gave a small bow to her.

"Sherlock, say something!" he hissed and nudged him with his elbow, not taking his eyes off Molly. We're going through an emotional scene here; no way am I leaving Sherlock out, he thought.

Never one to apologise, but feeling that that time would be an exception, Shelock swallowed his pride and made a small undetected step towards her. "Yes, I am sorry as well. Forgive me."

Molly looked down, blushing a furious red, her heart melting to Anderson's sincere speech and Sherlock's honest apology. "I-I've forgiven you guys. Long ago."

She went to the counter with the food and called them over. "So, uh, wanna finish these up?"

"I'm going for the cake." Anderson raised up his hand.

"Steak sounds nice." Sherlock strode over.

They tried their creations, giving each other variations of 'a job well done', when Sherlock handed Anderson's…apron to him. "Damaged beyond repair, Anderson. Unfortunately, not fireproof."

"At least it kept my shirt intact," Anderson sighed.

"If you were to be a househusband anytime soon, just a tip: no aprons. It could lead to a disaster, sheep."

"If you were to be handling a task anytime soon, just a tip: be aware of your surroundings. It could lead to a disaster, moose."

"Cockroach."

"Lizard."

"Earwig!"

"Stink bug!"

Molly propped her elbow on the counter and her cheek rested on her knuckles as she looked at them warming up to another squabble. A small smile graced her face. Looks like some things will never change.

* * *

**That's teen!Anderson and teen!Sherlock for ya, in my opinion. Hope you liked both of the parts! -Please take a look at my other works as well :) :DDD**


End file.
